Strange Enough to Ruin Myself

I am strange—

stranger than I ever admit.

Strange enough

to set fire to my own shelter,

and stand there

watching it burn

without a tremor of regret.

I dismantled myself

piece by careful piece—

not out of rage,

not out of despair,

but with a quiet, deliberate calm.

And when it was done,

when the dust settled

over the ruins of who I was,

there was no mourning.

No guilt knocking at my chest.

No sorrow asking to be felt.

Only silence—

steady, unbothered silence.

Perhaps that is the strangest part:

not the destruction,

but the absence of grief afterward.

What kind of heart

undoes itself

and does not ache?

What kind of soul

watches its own collapse

and simply shrugs?

I am strange.

Yes—strange enough

to ruin myself

and call it nothing.